THE CHILD ASLEEP.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE.

XV.

CENTURY

Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's face,

Sleep on the bosom, that thy lips have pressed ! Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place

Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.

Upon that tender eye, my little friend,

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend; —

’T is sweet to watch for thee,-alone for thee.

His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow;

His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. Wore not his cheek the apple’s ruddy glow,

you not say he slept on Death's cold arm?

Would you

Awake, my boy!-- I tremble with affright!

Awake, and chase this fatal thought !- unclose Thine

eye

but for one moment on the light ! Even at the price of thine, give me repose !

Sweet error ! — he but slept, — I breathe again ; —

Come gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile ! O! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain,

Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?

THE GRAVE

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON.

For thee was a house built

Ere thou wert born,

For thee was a mould meant

Ere thou of mother camest.

But it is not made ready,
Nor its depth measured,

Nor is it seen

How long it shall be.

Now I bring thee
Where thou shalt be.

Now I shall measure thee,

And the mould afterwards.

Thy house is not
Highly timbered,
It is unhigh and low;
When thou art therein,
The heel-ways are low,
The side-ways unhigh.
The roof is built
Thy breast full nigh,
So thou shalt in mould
Dwell full cold,
Dimly and dark.

Doorless is that house,
And dark it is within ;

There thou art fast detained, And Death hath the key. Loathsome is that earth-house, And grim within to dwell. There thou shalt dwell,

And worrns shall divide thee.

Thus thou art laid,
And leavest thy friends;
Thou hast no friend,
Who will come to thee,

Who will ever see
How that house pleaseth thee ;
Who will ever open

The door for thee

And descend after thee,
For soon thou art loathsome

And hateful to see.